


confessional

by dragonsong (NekoAisu)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Tangled (2010) Fusion, Banter, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Healing road trips with the homie and your country’s most wanted enemy, Kissing, M/M, Magic, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prince Aymeric de Borel (Final Fantasy XIV), Rapunzel Elements, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25653652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/dragonsong
Summary: “Haurchefant Greystone, Ishgard’s most wanted thief and known enemy of public morals, is the man you hid in your closet.”“Oh.”“My wanted posters are inaccurate,” Haurchefant says with a whine. “Theyneverget my nose right.”
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone, Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone/Estinien Wyrmblood, Haurchefant Greystone/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	confessional

**Author's Note:**

> To everyone who listened to me scream about this: thank you. I hope the fic is as good as I made it sound while babbling in DMs

Aymeric has never left his spire. The schedule he follows has been the same for as long as he can remember. He doesn’t mind it, really. It’s simple and fills his day from end to end. 

He no longer needs the chart he had as a child to remind him of each task—get up at six, brush his hair, train on the terrace until eight, break his fast, study, clean, train more, have lunch—oh, who is he _kidding!_ Even the Fury has more to do from upon Her throne! By Her grace, he would have some _excitement_ for once! 

He groans when Estinien drags the curtains back, burying his head under his pillow in an attempt to ignore the sun shining through the window. His dreams are far more fanciful than reality. 

“Last I heard,” his guard says, yanking the blanket back, “princes were punctual.”

He curls up and holds his pillow tighter to his head. 

Estinien wrenches it from his grasp and glowers down at him. He’s in full armor with his helm held under his left arm, not a buckle left undone. “Good morning, highness,” he says belatedly, insubordinate as always. 

Aymeric rolls out of bed and shuffles over to his vanity. He blinks blearily at his reflection before sighing. “Good morning, Estinien,” he grumbles. 

His hair is a mess as always. 

He opens one of the drawers, grabbing a brush and oil before closing it. He undoes his braid, setting the thick leather tie on the vanity, and begins to brush. He starts from the ends and works his way up, hands full of fulms upon fulms of shimmering blue-white hair.

Estinien grimaces and sits down heavily on one of Aymeric’s rolling stools. They’re ridiculous looking contraptions, more metal than cushion, and he still can’t believe he helped him commission them from Ser Stephanivien on grounds of supplies for the royal astrology department. Aymeric has been using them ever since, so he can justify the lie to himself. He just wishes the small, rounded pillow on top was more than a glorified hat for the clunky device. Even with his armor on and a good amount of padding sewn around his arse and thighs, he still finds himself growing sore. 

“How the hells do you sit on these for hours every night?” he complains, tapping his foot against the floor. 

Aymeric just smiles at him, fingers weaving his hair into enough braids to make even the most vain maiden feel faint, and shrugs. He ties them off one after another until the chronometer reads seven twenty-four and he can manage to carefully pin each and every plait up into a formal hairstyle. 

Clothes are a simple affair from thereon out. He strides over to his armoire, opens it, snatches whatever outfit had been prepared by the maidstaff the night before, and dresses. Estinien does not look. It would not be proper to watch the crown prince dress, he tells himself, but the truth of the matter is that he has seen all of him hundredfold during their youth.

(And the additional truth, the one he does not dare even whisper in a confessional, is that he has long since developed something past chaste affection for his friend and lord.)

Aymeric taps him on the shoulder and does not take offense when he startles. “Shall we?”

Estinien looks up at him and sighs. “You look like shite,” he informs as tolerably as possible. “There are bags—“

“Large and enough to fit Ser Adelphel’s collection of misbegotten knickers,” he quips. “Yes, I know.” 

He taps his foot, nervousness bleeding off of him, and Estinien places a hand on his back (nearly atop the shoulder. Any lower would test both scripture and self-control). Aymeric heaves a deep breath before striding forward, out of reach, and stands before the door to his chamber with his back straight and eyes stuck firmly to the inscription above the frame.

_Do not fear. She will ever be with you. Be not dismayed or doubtful. She will vindicate you with her righteous Hand._

There is a ribbon sticking out from his enchiridion to mark that exact verse. He remembers every word of Saint Daniffen’s writings (the inscription is from 92:7) and holds it in good faith that the Fury blesses those who heed Her prophets’ teachings.

He is still very, _very_ nervous to face his father. 

_“Cease this foolishness,”_ he had said the last time there had been a mention of astronomy and irregular clusters of comets, _“I will hear no more of it. You shame me with such displays of fancy.”_

There has been no time to apologize afforded to him before his father had left in a swirl of blonde hair and sharp angles. He did pause to remind that all difficult things in life are trials to be overcome. The Fury is their sword and She is their shield. She would not leave Her children to suffer, should it not bring them closer to enlightenment. 

A sharp rap on the door knocks him from his reverie. “Come in!” he calls. 

The wooden door swings inward, the corner scraping against a loose floorboard, and Ser Zephirin—their Very Reverend Archimandrite—smiles gently at him in greeting. One other Ward Knight flanks his father. The smell of him hits Aymeric before his appearance. 

Ser Charibert reeks of _burning._ He is their head inquisitor, a man devoted to the destruction of heresy in every form, and the sickly sweet way he doles out Halone’s teachings to others beggars belief when he is known to set careful fire to those who have sinned against Her grace. His face twists with disgust when he spots Aymeric (and what did he miss this time? A pin? A lock of hair? One of the buttons on a shirt cuff?) and he drawls, “Good _morning_ , little prince. I see you’ve been ruining your health with the stars again.”

His father’s face pinches. “Aymeric, how many times must I ask?”

“I know, father, but I have little to do and—“

“Your birthday is coming up,” Thordan interrupts. His hands are much older than his face where they rest upon his cane. “With it, you will have reached the age whereupon Halone may choose to send you a measure of divine right. Not all those who reached ascendancy to rule under Her hand were princes. Be not alarmed, should she pass over and find you wanting.”

Aymeric bows shallowly, trying not to sound disappointed with his father’s lack of faith in his worth when he replies, “Of course, father. How is your illness?”

“Better, since the Blessing.”

“That is a relief.”

Thordan walks over to the one chair Aymeric refuses to touch and sits down. The high-backed design is nearly reminiscent of a throne when his father sits in it. With his heavy regalia of office draping over the wooden legs and armrests, he might as well be attending to official matters of state, but here he is with Aymeric instead. 

He hopes desperately to be worthy. 

There is little left to do by way of preparation before he is able to grant succor. He kneels before the seat, places his hands on his father’s, and recites the same prayer his father taught him when he was first learning to speak.

“Bless my hand, O Halone, that I may be the bearer to your will. Heal me that I may heal others. Sanctify me that I may sanctify others. You are the one I praise.” 

The Fury never ignores his entreatment. She sweeps the heat from his bones and replaces it with brilliant, burning aether. It spills from his palms and even through his hair (proof of his blessing, he has been told, and to cut it would be to sin) into his father’s body. The fatigue he carries is swept away and the severe draw of his brow is lessened somewhat. He looks oddly young, Aymeric thinks, but knowing of his father’s affliction, he finds it is a relief rather than something to fear. 

He stands and allows himself a moment to collect his wits. Halone’s blessing always leaves him painfully cold. Estinien knows this from years spent at his side, but his father? The man who stops by his chambers every few days to see him, be granted succor, and then leaves? Aymeric would never burden him with something so inconsequential. 

The icy sensation settles about his heart and he muffles a cough into the back of his hand. It has grown from a dull ache to a sharper pain—the same one he associates with waking up in the night crying, chest seizing because he can’t breathe and it _hurts—_ over the course of the past few years. He wonders if Halone intends it, or if it is just that he is nearing his own limits. 

His father stands, takes the barest step forward, and pats him on the head. “You did well.”

“Thank you, father,” he breathes, smiling. The pain in his chest eases somewhat. 

Ser Zephirin and Ser Charibert move in to flank him in all white and blue. They match Thordan from tip to devoted toe. So firm have they been in their beliefs that even the rumors about Ser Adelphel’s thousand infidelities are known to be the product of jealous husbands and not truth. Had Estinien not confirmed Ser Grinnaux’s tomfoolery and wanton drinking habits at more than a few pubs, Aymeric would struggle to believe any of them were anything less than faultless. 

Aymeric bows when they leave. The moment the door closes, he groans. “Why am I so _dumb—“_

“Highness—“

“—I didn’t even manage to _ask!_ What about—“

 _“Aymeric,”_ Estinien snaps. He frowns thunderously, crossing his arms. “You already know what he would say.”

“But I would fain hear it,” he argues, turning to look out the window. The sun shines blindingly bright against the timeworn stone of Ishgard’s fortresslike castle town. The Vault is one of it’s highest points, Aymeric’s spire being a watchtower long since repurposed. He can see people in the streets and those of the clergy attending to their duties. 

“I would hear it,” he repeats, more to himself than Estinien, “even if I know it will not be favorable.” He wanders over to the windowsill and leans on it, sighing. His chest still aches. 

Estinien huffs a laugh. “Of course you would.”

“Oh, don’t you get smart with me, my friend,” he says, jokingly. 

“‘Tis my job, highness.”

“To be mutinous?” he asks, leveling Estinien with a playful smirk. “Rebellious, mayhap? To take _terrible_ liberties with my trust and leave me lonely in your absence?”

Estinien blinks. His voice is uncharacteristically strained when he asks, “Me? Take liberties with you?”

“Yes,” Aymeric replies with a nod. “Terrible, unforgivable ones. Ones like leaving me alone here while you go on hunts beyond the city.”

Estinien opens his mouth to reply when Aymeric begins laughing. 

“I jest! I know you have duties to attend to—“ _like ensuring his safety and continued residence within the confines of his tower_ “—that are of utmost importance.” 

He flusters, heat rising to his cheeks, and uses the chiming of the chronometer as an excuse to cover his face. He has half of the clasps fastened when Aymeric draws himself away from the window and to his side. His fingers are practiced where they complete the few that are left and then tug him down by the horns to lay a chaste kiss on his lips. 

It’s a little bit awkward when accounting for the beaked shape of his visor, but a common enough occurrence as of late that Aymeric spares not even a moment to pause and consider the implications past a show of affection between friends. His favorite novels had written it to be a casual thing, the type of display that (if kept quick and closed-mouth) was in no way unbecoming or debauched, and Estinien had never voiced a word of complaint edgewise. 

“Be safe,” he says by way of farewell. 

Estinien steps backward and nods. He is out the window and on his way to his watch less than a minute later. 

Aymeric collapses onto one of his stools. No amount of astronomy and divination has been able to tell him anything else about the strange lights he’s been seeing. They appear every year on his birthday, far from the Ishgard proper, and fill the sky with brilliant blue and silver. He had thought them to be strange comets or fireworks, but since picking up the study of stars, he’s come to realize that they could not be _either._ The lights last too long to be fireworks and don’t follow the same patterns as comets in orbit.

He is determined to see them in person and discover what they are in truth. 

Before he can do that, however, he needs to first ask his father for permission. He had tried penning his request and had only succeeded in filling his desk with crumpled sheets of parchment. He’d rehearsed different tones and levels of formality while facing a scribbled facsimile of his father’s face. He could not bear to tear a page from the Record of Kings just to fluster and fail at verbalizing his most ardent wish. No matter what he does, it only ever ends with words left unsaid.

The breakthrough he needs comes in the form of a break in three days later. 

“Estinien, I have something of utmost importance to tell you,” he states, chin high as if his friend cannot see straight through his bravado.

“Is it another new planet?”

“No!” he replies, excitement making him speak louder than intended. “I have a _person_ in my _closet!_ A real person!”

Estinien’s brows furrow. His words are measured when he asks, “Is his Majesty aware?”

“No, but I’ll tell him when he visits this eveni—“

“Do you think that’s a good idea, Aymeric?”

The prince pauses, the bounce in his step fading, and says uneasily, “Yes?”

Estinien rarely uses his name unless he feels something needs to be taken seriously. He… isn’t sure why he would use it now, though. It’s just a person (in his closet, knocked out cold by the embossed cover of his enchiridion)! The most his father would do is be _proud_ of him. He protected himself and took precautions against the intruder potentially escaping. 

This is his chance to prove that he isn’t as weak and naïve as Ser Charibert always says he is. This is his chance to convince his father that he is ready to see the outside! He won’t give it up _that_ easily. 

* * *

“You are _not_ leaving this tower,” Thordan thunders. He glares at his son (his wayward child, the result of his sole indiscretion) and stands from his chair. Aymeric steps away from his armoire, blanching. 

“But—“

_“Ever.”_

Aymeric is a good child. He is obedient and quiet, if painfully curious, and has been easy enough to keep safe for the past twenty four years. Even with eyes downcast and his request leaving a bitterness in the air, he is still polite. 

“Yes, father.”

“You know I detest being made to play the part of evil,” he reminds, brushing a hand over Aymeric’s hair. “I only have your safety at heart.”

Without his Blessing to reverse the wear of time, Thordan would have died twice over. The magic Aymeric was born with is more valuable than the boy himself. Truly, he has been nothing if not _charitable,_ but he cannot help but spoil him in what ways he can. 

“Is there anything else you would like?”

Aymeric seems surprised that he could presume to make another (read: acceptable) request. “Could I…” he starts, stopping to clear this throat. “Could I have some time to study? Maybe a new book from the Astrologium?”

“That can be arranged,” he agrees. “I will have the Azure Dragoon granted a week of leave, should you prefer his company to solitude whilst we wait for the Fury’s verdict.”

When his son nods, he smiles. 

“Farewell, Aymeric.”

“Goodbye, father.”

When the door closes behind him, he turns to the guards and orders, “Do not let anyone in or out of here, save for myself or the Ward. The servants will be informed.”

If Aymeric was determined to learn of the lights and squander his Blessing so selfishly, he could only do his best to ensure its safety. 

* * *

Aymeric is having a terrible day. 

He should have listened to Estinien,he thinks while face-down on his bed. He should have waited or trained more or done absolutely _anything_ else than what he did, but no! He asked his father to take him to see the lights like a child asking his parent to take him to see the Continental Circus. He was, for lack of any other words, a _fool._

He’d said, “As you know, it is my birthday coming up—“ which of _course_ his father knew “—and I would like to see the floating lights. Could I perhaps go with you?” 

Could he? No! Of course not! 

His father is a busy man and hasn’t the time to spare on his son when the _entire country_ needs him. Why had he even said that? 

Even with proof right there in his closet, he hadn’t managed to speak up (not mumble or ramble) well enough to get there before he’d blurted out his request. His father would never allow it because he believes Aymeric to be too weak to defend himself from things like Dravanians and other insurgents, but he had been about to prove him wrong. He had an intruder in his closet he intended to show his father to prove that he could look out for himself. 

For Halone’s sake, he’s nearly twenty five! He doesn’t need a babysitter or blunted sword when he can— _thump!_

He whips around, neck cracking at the motion, and stares at the doors of his armoire. The next time he hears a thump, he catches the doors rattling against the chair he’d used as a barricade. He grabs his Enchiridion and sneaks over to the side of the wooden piece. 

He hears a muffled curse and some softer sounds before he pulls the chair free in one semi-momentous movement. 

His captive falls nose-first against the floor with a yell. Aymeric levels the book in their direction and asks, voice as level as he can manage, “Who sent you?”

They turn their head to face him, still laying sprawled on the floor, and reply, “Nobody. Though may I say, hell _—ouch!_ Watch the face!”

Aymeric pokes the corner of the book against their cheek before using it to pull up their top lip. “No sharp teeth,” he mutters to himself. “An Ishgardian? Like me?”

“Yes, in theory,” they reply, making to get up. He pokes them again. They cease their movement. 

“What do you mean, _in theory?”_

“I’m a bastard. Greystone, if you will.”

Aymeric gasps. “Greyblood!”

“Grey _stone,_ thank you very much. Greyblood isn’t a polite word nowadays,” they correct. “Though, it doesn’t seem like you get out much.”

He glares, digging the book into their cheek. “How did you know?”

“I’d remember a handsome face like yours.”

He feels heat flood his face. Even his _ears_ feel hot. “I-I… you flatter me.”

“I can flatter you more if you help me make it out of the city,” they offer. 

Aymeric is sorely tempted. 

“No way in all seven hells.”

“Estinien!” he cries, startled. “When did you get here?” 

The dragoon does not reply, stalking forward to grab Aymeric’s prisoner by the shirt. “What are you doing here, Greystone?” he growls. 

“Hiding,” they—Greystone, Aymeric has to remind himself—reply.

“Why?” he finds himself asking. 

Estinien sighs. He does not release his grip when he says, “Haurchefant Greystone, Ishgard’s most wanted thief and known enemy of public morals, is the man you hid in your closet.”

“Oh.”

“My wanted posters are inaccurate,” Haurchefant says with a whine. “They _never_ get my nose right.”

Aymeric wonders how he has the composure to be worried about the accuracy of posters and not the fact that they _exist_ and mark him for capture on sight. 

But if _this_ is Ishgard’s most wanted and _he_ is the one who caught him, there would be absolutely _nothing_ his father could worry about with regards to letting him see the lights. Forget capturing a regular, run-of-the-mill burglar, he apprehended the most infamous of them all. Take that, Ser Charibert!

“We’ll turn him in to my father and then I can—“

“Aymeric, no.”

“—ask about the lights again and—“

“Wait, the lights? You mean the _lanterns?_ The ones for Saint Shiva?” Haurchefant asks, holding up his hands when Estinien gives him a warning look. “Forget I said anything.”

“No!” Aymeric nearly shouts before restraining himself. “No,” he repeats, this time at a lower volume, “you need to tell me more. If you do, I’ll… I’ll set you free.”

He ignores how Estinien bristles at the offer and extends a hand, the other still gripping the Enchiridion. 

“Freedom for a story sounds a bit cheap,” Haurchefant says, wary. 

“Take me to see them in person, then.”

He takes his hand and shakes. 

“Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> AYMERIC STOP MAKING DECISIONS ON IMPULSE CHALLENGE
> 
> Scream with/at me on:  
> Twitter [@khirimochi](https://twitter.com/khirimochi) OR [@TheHolyBody (NSFW)](https://twitter.com/TheHolyBody)  
> Tunglr @[Main](https://kiriami.tumblr.com) OR @[FFXIV Imagines](https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com)


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